by Unknown
When she bent to open her door, Joe attacked.
He pulled a long silver knife from the folds of his raincoat and placed it against the softness of her throat. Wrapping his powerful arms around her body, he swiftly carried her off into the woods that abutted the station. There he threw her to the ground. The sketchbook and satchel were torn away and discarded. Joe put the knife in his mouth, holding it between strong teeth, tasting the hot metal. With both hands he tore at her pants as she watched him with a silent, expressionless face. The tight denim caught at the swell of her hips dragging her forward in the dirt. She hissed like a snake as he violently yanked, his nostrils quivering with the scent of damp leaves and soil, the pungent aroma of leather. The zipper burst, scraping her tender flesh; pants and underwear came off like a layer of skin.
Joe's heart pounded at the sight of her translucent legs and the musky dark region of her crotch. His hands crawled up her legs like spiders, squeezing the softness of her thighs, the hardness in his groin aching against the confines of his clothing. Unzipping his own pants, he released himself to the cool night, stiffly poised above her unresisting body.
The wind carried an abundance of scents–the grass, the pine from the woods, the sweat from his body–everything but the scent of fear that he wanted from her.
She wasn't frightened. Angered, Joe spread her roughly and lowered himself. She reached up for him instantly. Her long arms pulled him down, her supple legs thrust upward to meet him. Startled, he tried to pull back, but her grip was like steel. He opened his mouth in wild protest and the knife dropped, the serrated edge biting into his sensitive, weakening member. He cried in agony. Hot ruby dots dripped from his penis and sprinkled her thighs.
The woman laughed, then growled. Her fingers clamped coldly around the tender bleeding shaft, pulling it to her mouth. Her tongue stabbed outwards, long and dewy, and she drank.
Joe's mind became a brilliant constellation of exploding red stars. He leaned over her, transfixed by the feral expression on her face, wanting her to stop…yet not wanting. His blood, his life was being sucked into the cold fire of her voracious mouth.
The bright moonlight reflecting off his knife caught his eye and brought him back. With his last bit of willpower he scooped the knife up and in a single furious motion buried it deep into her chest. There was an explosion of blood. Thick and viscous, it left crimson ropes on his bare legs. The woman screamed in true fear and Joe grinned–this was the way it should be.
He dug for her heart, twisting the handle of the knife, opening a wider hole for the blood to gush out, wanting to empty her as she had tried to do to him. The blade sliced neatly through body tissue, scraped off the bones of her rib cage, and punctured her frantically palpitating heart. He pulled the knife out and swiftly drove it in again, delighting in the firm yet giving flesh. It was a sensation that flowed from the handle of the knife to his forearm, to his tingling elbow. It drove him into a glorious rage. He hacked repeatedly at the red body long after her screams had faded, stopping only when the gushing blood turned into weak trickles that seeped slowly through the ribbons of her skin.
Immediately the body changed…the skin became wrinkled, the eyes sunk into deep sockets, the hair turned spotty and white. The entire body withered away until what lay before us in the dirt was no longer recognizable as the young woman from the train but someone much older, someone ancient. The body continued to deteriorate, crumbling to dust before my horrified eyes.
In the distance a train whistle blared crisply on the cold night air. Joe gathered himself, wiping the drying blood from his legs with the woman's discarded jeans. The echo of the train faded, replaced by the softer sound of flapping wings. I stared into the night expecting a giant bird to appear, then lowered my eyes and saw the sketchbook lying next to the tracks, pages fluttering in the wind.
Sickened by all that happened, I walked unsteadily to the tracks, gathering the book and woman's red satchel. I sat down at the base of a tree in an area illuminated by splinters of moonlight. Opening the book, I studied the pencil drawings within—portraits and landscapes done in a vivid realistic style. Even in the moonlight I could see that the woman, whoever or whatever she was, drew with the ease and grace of a master. When I came upon the last drawing, the one she'd been working on on the train, I froze–an insidious worm of terror crawled up my spine as I stared at the perfect straight lines. I brought the book closer to my eyes. There was no mistake: the death train of my dreams, the very same, was spread before me.
Aurora DiGiovanni–the name danced like sweet poetry on my tongue. I repeated it to myself, aloud, in silent thought, in my dreams. I was haunted by the name, the face, the meager clues I possessed. In the safety of my apartment I pored over her belongings. I studied the strangely blurred photo license that placed her age at twenty-five; I held the pens and pencils that were her tools, turning them in my hands, imagining that the creative spark she gave them still lingered within the inanimate matter. I stared at the keys and wondered what connection there was between the beautiful artist on the train and the crumbling monster in the woods for she was a monster. To this Joe attested. There was no need for him to show me proof of the macabre act she performed that night. I knew what she was, yet I was still infatuated with her.
Joe had also become infatuated, but not with Aurora. After his very first taste of killing he longed…no, lusted for more. He talked about killing every day, describing the most brutal acts of torture and mayhem in simple loving detail. The immense gratification he took from these sick ravings repulsed me more than anything he described. For him there was nothing more erotic than brutality. He would work himself into a frenzy of sexual desire that would culminate with him kneeling half-naked over the toilet, the veins in his forehead pulsing as he spilled his awful seed into the brackish water. Night after night he begged me to go out, to ride the night trains. Night after night I refused him.
He threw tantrums–screaming at me, cursing me. Because of my preoccupation with Aurora he accused me of wanting to fuck the dead, then gloated that only he was man enough for her. In the end he would shrivel on the bathroom floor, crying like a child, knowing that I would not let him out.
My dreams of the death train, once a nightly terror, abruptly stopped. Did I have Aurora to thank for the cure? Had the transference of my dream to her sketchbook, the exact transposition of my nightmare, somehow succeeded in erasing it from my mind?
I was unable to leave such questions unanswered for long. Only ten days after Aurora's death I was again waiting for the night train to Lansdale. Waiting with her sketchbook under my arm, her keys jingling in my pocket, and Joe waiting ever anxiously by my side.
The address on Aurora's license turned out to be a dismal brick warehouse which squatted like an ugly toad on a slope overlooking a freight yard. It had been a warm day, Indian summer weather, and the night wind was mild—a far cry from our last visit. We rode a cab from the train station and a talkative driver dropped us at our destination within ten minutes, a short crosstown haul. To alleviate any suspicions, I pretended that we were entrepreneurs surveying a site to renovate and open as a restaurant. "This place could use some new blood," the driver said as he pulled up to the warehouse. "Hasn't been anyone in that building for ages."
"I see," I said and paid him the fare.
Joe said nothing. He'd been silent our entire trip, staring out the window of the cab as we rode, preoccupied with his thoughts. I knew he felt this a foolish venture, yet he would have done anything to escape the confines of our apartment—to be out among people again. His silence frightened me.
A light rain began to fall as we stood outside the building, dampening our clothes. The entrance was a small wooden door, barely large enough to fit a grown man.
What did I really expect to find? As I fished for the keys, I reviewed my excuse for being there should I be questioned: to return the sketchbook to its proper owner.
After a moment of searching I found the right key,
and we entered the building. Immediately a musty, oppressive odor reached out from the dark interior, as if anxious to devour the brief rush of fresh air filtering through the open door. I could smell the dampness from the concrete floor and, once the door closed, felt entombed by the darkness. Only the sound of the increasing rain outside, sizzling against the building, anchored me to reality.
I felt along the wall hoping to find a light switch, but my fingers encountered nothing but cold brick. Then a shaft of light pierced the darkness—Joe with a flashlight, prepared as usual. I watched his shining eyes above the circular yellow glow, wondering what other tools he carried. Finally I located a switch. A dim overhead bulb was coaxed into service.
The place was filled with art. They were stacked like boxes of dry goods along the walls, two and three rows deep. Painting after painting, numbering in the thousands. Stored, discarded, forgotten. Oils, watercolors, temperas, sketches; scattered like debris throughout the warehouse. I picked up one of the framed oil paintings that was lying on the floor. It was a scene from a nineteenth-century picnic–a man and woman eating beneath the shade of a huge oak tree. Although the colors had faded and mildew was encroaching upon the corners, the canvas scene breathed with life. I could almost taste the red wine from their romantic toast, could almost hear the rustle of green nature around them and feel the desire for the buxom young woman in the man's glazed stare. The signature of the artist was nestled in the lower right-hand corner–as it was, I soon discovered, incredibly enough, on every single piece of artwork in the room–"Aurora DiGiovanni."
By the time I finished browsing through the stacks I felt as if I had known Aurora my entire life. She called to me from the lines and swirls of the paintings, speaking from the faces of the people–musical, loving, and kind. She was a master of realism, of subtle romantic nature, yet equally adept at portraying the surreal. No matter the style, a degree of optimism showed through every painting. Indeed, even in depictions of evil–in the brief flashes of war, the glimpses of death, cruelty, and economic strife–there was always a life-affirming center. It was impossible to look upon her work and not feel a wonderful surge of artistic inspiration.
Joe did not care for Aurora's work; he stalked the warehouse like a caged tiger, impatiently flexing his hands, his mind flooded with images of brutality. Yet these images were tempered by something unusual in him–a strange sense of remorse and nervous apprehension. I knew that we must move on.
Along the back wall of the warehouse was a service elevator leading to the next floor. We entered and began our ascent. As soon as we reached the second floor, I knew we were not alone.
Through the elevator cage I could see a sparsely furnished living area–a table, two wooden chairs, the arched back of a sofa, all revealed in the faint glow of a lamp that rested on a sturdy end table. From somewhere in the room came a low moan. Sliding the cage door open, we entered.
A sharp intake of breath came from the vicinity of the sofa. I stood outside the elevator, listening, the familiar scent of oils and paints permeating the room. Then, faintly, someone whispered.
"Aurora…"
"I'm a friend," I answered, carefully moving forward.
A figure stood up from the sofa and turned to face me. I could see long blond hair falling around a pale face and resting on thin, delicate shoulders. It was a boy, a teenager, no older than eighteen. He wore faded dungarees and a plain white shirt the sleeves of which were rolled up to just below the elbows, exposing smooth, slender arms. He appeared malnourished and could barely open his mouth to speak.
"Who are you?" he asked in a painful rasp.
"I brought something. I brought Aurora's sketchbook." Speaking slowly, I moved to the end table and stood with the glow of the lamp in my face.
"I asked you a question.
"I already told you. I'm a friend."
He coughed loudly for a few seconds. "Aurora has no friends."
"I'm an admirer then. I want to know more about her. About her work."
"Where did you get the book?"
"I found it in the woods. Close to the railroad tracks."
The boy's face knotted into a grimace of pain, cracked lips pulling back to display rows of crooked, coppery teeth. Then he relaxed, the spasm gone, dark green eyes resting in black sockets that contrasted sharply with the rest of his white, bloodless face. "Give it to me. Give me the sketchbook."
"But I have questions."
"Give me the book and I'll try to answer them."
Another coughing spell shook his fragile body. I handed the sketchbook over, wary of any sudden motion, and he took it with the shaking hands of a drug addict. Immediately, he looked through the pages as if to confirm that none were missing.
"She was so talented," I said. "That last drawing. Of a train. I had a dream exactly like that."
The boy stiffened, his eyes studying the last page, the drawing torn from my dreams.
"It's amazing. She captured every last detail of my nightmare."
"You bastard. You killed her!"
He stared at me, his eyes like stilettos. He made no move forward, yet his body suddenly seemed infused with coiled power.
"I knew it as soon as I saw you," he said in a low, menacing voice. "You have the look of a predator. You killed her and stole the book."
"I killed no one."
"You were close enough to her that she could read your dreams. Now you're here, with her sketchbook."
"Read my dreams?"
Suddenly he lunged towards me. I braced myself, waiting for him to strike, but he stumbled and wavered. As suddenly as the rage had come, the life drained from his eyes. There was a wheeze, a groan, and he dropped to the floor.
"Help me," he gasped, lying at my feet, hands kneading his stomach. I reached down and pulled his frail body onto the sofa.
"What can I do?"
"Feed me."
"What?"
"Aurora fed me…I haven't learned yet. Please!"
I stood there, motionless; it was Joe who understood perfectly what to do. Who took his knife and neatly sliced a straight red line down his forearm. Who offered it, compassionately, to the writhing creature on the sofa. And it was Joe who cried softly as the boy's cracked lips touched the shimmering red stream and drank.
Aurora painted dreams. Everything I had seen below were copies of other people's dreams. In over two hundred years she had never painted an original piece.
"Aurora believed that a dream was a work of art," explained the boy, who told us his name was Victor.
"A dream is a painting with symbols and hidden meaning. The dreamer is an artist," he continued. There was life in his eyes again, color in his gaunt face. "I was her dreamer for a long time. She used my dreams exclusively. In return she made me like this…it's what I wanted. Now she's dead. You've killed the artist but what about the dreamer?"
"I told you. I killed no one!"
"You're a predator," said Victor. "And I say that without malice."
"If that's true then I'm no worse than you. Where does your next meal come from? What innocent person?"
"I'm a novice; I pose no threat to anyone. Even Aurora, with the knowledge and strength of centuries, posed no threat to anyone in this day and age. We feed off each other and those who are willing to cross over. But you? You're the product of this age, the true horror of the night–the monster."
I waited for Joe to attack; for him to tear out Victor's tongue with his bare hands, but he was strangely silent. He kept moving away from us, fading back into the shadows of the room. I wanted desperately to call him, to hold him and keep him with me but the words never came.
"We do share something else in common," said Victor, gently placing his hand on my shoulder. "We share our dreams."
"My friend could kill you," I snapped, twisting from the chill hand.
"Yes. And I could kill you. Very easily. But why kill? I want to show you something."
I was led to another section of the room where a lon
g wooden table stood. The table was covered with jars of paint and brushes–Aurora's workshop. I felt a burning urge to pick up the brushes and follow the old movements again. Opposite the table was a gigantic canvas held together in three sections by scaffolding. Two stepladders were placed at either end for access to the top. It was quite obviously a work in progress. The finished section around the top of the canvas depicted a gray horizon infused with dark storm clouds. From this fragmentary beginning I detected a desolate air, a sense of dread unusual in her work.
"This is what she was working on," said Victor softly. "She was uncertain about the centerpiece."
"This looks so dismal."
"I failed her," replied Victor, frowning. "I ran out of dreams. She waited for weeks, but there was nothing for me but bits and pieces. Whatever it was she was looking for, I couldn't provide. So she went out one night among the people, to give her powers free rein. Oh, she hated going out. Imagine, if you will, a crowd of images battling for space inside your head. Imagine that for a single week, then multiply it by two hundred years. It's why she boarded herself in seclusion throughout her life. Living in warehouses, cabins, obscure towns. Supporting herself by selling a few paintings to local galleries, moving on. But that night she needed inspiration." He paused and pointed back to the sofa where the sketchbook was propped against the pillows. "She went out and found your train. Unfortunately, she also found you."
I have no recollection of movement or conscious thought, only that suddenly I found myself with my hands around his throat. I wrestled him to the ground, my face hovering above his. I felt rage, terror, monumental confusion. "I didn't kill her!"